The City of Dreaming Books (43 page)

I almost had a heart attack, not only then but on other occasions as well - for instance when he crept up behind me while I was seated in an armchair in the Leather Grotto, drowsily reading in peace, and bellowed some
Oedipus
in my ear with all his might:

Not vengeful like Dolerich, just plain crazy, was a Bookling who had devoted his life to the works of Lugo Blah. Lugo Blah was a prominent exponent of Zamonian Gagaism, and the deliberate insanity of that literary genre had rubbed off on his Bookling namesake a trifle too effectively for my taste. I’d always found Zamonian Gagaism suspect because I had a hunch that its primary aim was not so much concentrated creative endeavour as the consumption of hallucinogenic mushrooms and strong liquor. At their functions and readings the Gagaists liked to dress up as sausages or brass instruments, play music on Oxenfrogs and spray their audiences with saliva. I always found it suspicious when writers got together in groups because it was obvious that they did so, not with any serious work in mind, but for social reasons.

The Gagaists, and Lugo Blah above all, tended to write in languages of their own invention (a practice that makes it rather too easy for the writer, in my opinion). Thus it often happened that Blah’s demented devotee would jump out of a crack in the rock and bombard me with poetic gibberish.

he would yell, prancing round me and gesticulating in an idiotic way. More than anything else, it was the ingenuity with which he chose the most unlikely hiding places that rendered his unheralded appearances so nerve-shattering.

I learnt many other interesting facts about the Booklings during my stay with them, I can assure you, dear readers. It would exceed the scope of the present book to enumerate them in detail, but I intend to do so in a future publication.
¹¹

I began to suffer from occasional fits of depression and a feeling of homelessness as the weeks went by. Whenever this happened I got the Booklings to hypnotise me into the Crystal Forest, where I often roamed for hours with Dancelot Two until the beauties of the underworld had made me forget all else. Then we would sit beside the bubbling magma in the Devil’s Kitchen, sweating as we chatted of this and that. It was Dancelot Two who broached the subject one day.

‘You miss Overworld, don’t you?’

I would never have said so myself. The Booklings treated me with such touching solicitude that I couldn’t possibly have mentioned my longing for sunlight and fresh air - it would have seemed ungrateful. I was relieved that Dancelot Two had raised the subject on his own initiative.

‘Of course I do. I almost managed to forget it for a long time, but recently I’ve found it harder and harder.’

‘We can’t take you up there, you know.’

‘I realise that, but Al once told me you’re in contact with other inhabitants of the catacombs.’

‘We are - with Demidwarfs and Troglotrolls, but they can’t be trusted. They supply us with certain commodities from the surface - at a price - but I couldn’t guarantee your safety if we placed you in their care. They might hand you straight over to the Bookhunters or do something nasty to you.’

‘What about maps? I’ve seen some in the Leather Grotto with routes through the catacombs marked on them.’

‘We could provide you with maps, of course, but the catacombs are always changing. One cave-in and all the maps in the world wouldn’t help you. As for maps that show where dangers are lurking, they just don’t exist. There’s no reasonably safe route to the surface, believe me.’

‘If I want to survive I’ll have to stay with you for ever, is that what you mean?’

Dancelot Two heaved a sigh, gazing mournfully into the lava.

‘I knew this moment would come sooner or later. For selfish reasons I’m tempted to say that you’re right, that there’s no hope. But . . .’

‘But what?’

‘I know of another possibility.’

‘You mean there
is
one?’ I asked, suddenly wide awake.

‘Yes. There are a few secrets we haven’t confided, even in you.’

‘What, for instance?’

‘I could introduce you to someone who knows his way around the catacombs even better than we do.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘Would you like to meet Colophonius Regenschein?’ asked Dancelot Two. ‘Bookholm’s greatest hero?’

D
ancelot Two guided me to an area I had never set foot in before, one where there were only numerous small cave dwellings and no subterranean chambers in communal use. On and on he went, even when all the little caves we passed were unoccupied: vacant quarters for future Booklings. There was no one around but us.

‘Are you really taking me to see Colophonius Regenschein?’ I asked. ‘Or do you just mean the Bookling who knows his book by heart?’

‘We discovered him a few years ago,’ said Dancelot Two, hurrying on ahead. ‘Deep down in the catacombs. He was badly wounded - half dead, in fact - after a duel with Rongkong Koma. We brought him here and nursed him back to health. He regained his strength - well, more or less, but he’s never really recovered from that fight. He wrote his second book while here. We’ve learnt a great deal from him, just as he has from us. He advised us where to find rare books for the Leather Grotto and we told him all we knew about the catacombs. His health has been deteriorating lately and we spent a long time debating whether or not to take you to him. We didn’t want to put him at risk - it’s for his own protection that everyone thinks he’s dead; on the other hand, he’s the only person really capable of helping you. Anyway, he recently took a turn for the worse, so we decided, with his consent, to . . . Ah, here we are.’

Dancelot Two had paused outside the mouth of a cave covered by a heavy chain curtain. ‘I must get back to the Leather Grotto,’ he whispered. ‘The Animatomes need feeding. Al is inside with Colophonius, he’ll introduce you.’ He hurried off and I parted the jingling curtain.

The chamber, which was at least ten times the size of the other cave dwellings, was lit by numerous candles. The bookshelves lining the walls were filled with sumptuously bound books whose gold and silver covers were studded with diamonds, rubies and sapphires.

The celebrated Bookhunter was lying on a big mound of furs beneath a blanket of some dark, heavy material that covered all of him except his head and paws. Al was seated on a stool beside him, looking worried. I was appalled by the sight of Regenschein’s face when I got near enough to make it out in the flickering candlelight, but I tried not to show anything.

The Vulphead was clearly on his last legs. I needed no telling that this was the last resting place of someone at death’s door, and that all three of us were aware of the fact.

‘I’m not what you were expecting, am I?’ Regenschein said in a hoarse voice. ‘You had visions of an intrepid daredevil bursting with vitality, didn’t you? Well, I worked hard to cultivate that image in my first book: Bookling’s greatest hero and so on. It exhausted my stock of superlatives.’

He gave a faint chuckle.

‘My name’, I began, ‘is—’

‘Optimus Yarnspinner - yes, I know. The Booklings have told me about you. You come from Lindworm Castle. Pfistomel Smyke knocked you out with a Toxicotome, just as he did me. We must get down to business without wasting time, because time is what I’ve got least of.’

‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘How could Smyke exile you to the catacombs when you’re the person who knows them best?’

Regenschein sat up a little. ‘He anaesthetised me with a Toxicotome just to get me into the catacombs. The Bookhunters were supposed to do the rest, but they didn’t do a thorough job. I escaped. Deeper and deeper into the catacombs I went, until only Rongkong Koma dared to follow me. Then I turned and confronted him - too soon, alas, being still under the effect of the poison. I was too weak to finish him off. We fought the longest duel in our long and checkered relationship. Neither of us really won, and I wouldn’t describe the condition in which Rongkong eventually hobbled off as healthy.’

He smiled. ‘If my little friends hadn’t found me I would have died without a doubt. They gave me the opportunity to write my second book down here. I entered the catacombs in search of the Shadow King and I’ve become a Shadow King myself. A living legend. A disembodied spirit.’

‘Why did Smyke treat you this way?’

‘Shouldn’t you ask yourself the same question?’ Regenschein demanded. ‘I’ve no idea. To be honest, I was hoping that
you
could supply me with the answer.’

‘I can’t, I’m afraid.’

‘It makes no sense,’ Regenschein said. ‘If he hadn’t told me about his megalomaniac plans, I would never have heard of them. Until then I knew nothing about Smyke that could have harmed him.’

‘It was exactly the same with me,’ I said. ‘May I show you something? I believe this to be the reason for my banishment to the catacombs.’ I took the manuscript from my cloak and handed it to him. He held it up and studied it, narrowing his eyes.

‘Ah yes,’ he murmured. ‘The paper is high-grade Grailsundian wove, 200 grammes. Unevenly trimmed, probably with an obsolete guillotine—’

‘I don’t think Smyke exiled me to the catacombs because the edges are ragged,’ I ventured to interrupt. ‘It’s the text that matters.’

Regenschein began to read in silence. His present condition made it impossible for him to react like me and the others - that I realised - but he was unmistakably enthralled. He laughed from time to time, breathing heavily for minutes on end, and once I saw a little tear trickle down his furry cheek. He had sat up as straight as he could, and the paw that held the manuscript was trembling violently.